Inside of the city it was little better than a pandemonium. The worst passions of humanity were running riot; the most savage and horrible instincts of the natives had been aroused, and they gave unchecked vent to their feelings; the beautiful Palace had become a barrack; the courtyards were turned into stables, and some of the noble apartments were occupied by the Sepoys, who gambled and drank, fought, quarrelled, and killed each other, and made the place hideous with their demoniacal revelry. The imbecile King, the grey-haired puppet, was powerless to stay this. He was like one who had invoked to his aid a terrible agency, that having once been set free, was beyond his control. But he believed himself mighty, and that belief gave him pleasure. He chuckled and grinned whenever accounts were brought to him, that so many English had been killed in the sorties. “Make our guns speak! make our guns speak!” was his favourite expression to his creatures. “Send showers of shot and shell into the English positions. Give them no rest. Do not stop until you have blown these hated Feringhees from the face of the earth.” But though the guns did indeed speak, though they sent forth their missions of death in thousands, there were still no signs of the “hated Feringhees” being blown from the face of the earth--on the contrary, they held their ground. They did more, they descended into the hollow, and attacked the enemy at his own gates, and often against fearful odds beat back the forces that came out against them. But these little successes gave the King no alarm. He believed it was impossible for the foreigners to get inside the city, and so he gave himself up to indolence and luxury. He had one little trouble though--a trifling one perhaps, but it caused him to chafe. This was the obstinacy of two women--Englishwomen. One of these was Flora Meredith. When Flora arrived in the city after being brought from Cawnpore by Moghul Singh, she was at once conveyed to the Palace, and confined in a small room. At first she gave herself up to almost maddening despair, and if the means had been at hand she might have been strongly tempted to put an end to her existence. A few days after arrival she was conducted to the presence of the King. He was alone in a luxuriously furnished ante-room that led from the “Hall of Audience.” Moghul Singh, who had been her guard, retired, and the King and Flora were face to face. She was the first to speak. “Your Majesty has sent for me,” she said. “What are your wishes, and why am I detained here a prisoner?” “I have sent for you that I may gaze upon your beauty,” he answered. “Peace, old man!” she exclaimed with warmth. “With your grey hairs there should at least be wisdom. I am but a girl; and though you may hate my race, my youth and sex should protect me from insult, and insure me pity from you.”